There has been another mishap in the Household. Sprog 1 again, of course. We were visiting friends when a gaggle of kids came scrambling up the back steps, gasping that Sprog 1 had done an accidental back flip out of the trampoline (zip on the net left open, duh) and landed head first on a fence.
OH MY GOD.
As Husband comforted her I launched into a lecture – “see, this is why it’s important to zip the safety net up …” which Husband cut short with a “now is not the time”. I would have thought now was the perfect time. But I shut up and made consoling noises instead.
The wound was far more impressive the other night, an enormous purple egg with an edge-of-fence dent in it. Sprog 1 was far less stoic than when she split her head open to the bone a few months ago, because she knew what the consequences might be – a 70-year-old doctor fumbling to remember how to do stitches and poking his fingers around in the wound/trimming the edges with some surgical scissors. As documented in Shut Up You Mental Patient. Shudder.
Fortunately she survived the night. No vomiting, double-vision or any additional trauma like that.
But you wonder how many blows to the head a child can take before her Naplan results start to suffer.
So of course I decided I’d blog about it after realizing I had graphic images of Sprog 1’s previous injuries, including the finger she shut into the car door. Like door totally shut. And me just staring in frozen horror and seconds passing before reacting. Like when people rush for the losing elevator doors and you forget where the “doors open” button is and they slam shut in their face.
In case you’re thinking it’s a bit weird to visually document your child’s suffering, Husband took the stitching head photo to show me the horror, the horror. I took the slammed door photo so I could send it to Husband for medical advice (he did a St john’s Ambulance first aid course once).
But I needed a pic of Sprog 1’s latest injury for a less understandable reason. This was tricky, because Sprog 1 was a bit sensitive about the injury. She spent the night before collapsing into gales of tears whenever the accident was mentioned.
After much consideration of subterfuge I decided to come right out and ask for a photo. She said ok, as long as I didn’t blog or Facebook it. Then she saw my crestfallen expression, sighed and grudgingly pulled back her fringe. Snap.
I feel like some sort of exploiting stage mother now. Profiting from my child’s misfortune … Oh, that’s right, there is no profit. I feel slightly better about it now.
On the subject of scars, I’m a bit miserable about mine from the skin camcer removal. As documented in Well That Sucks and You Want A Piece Of Me: “So I saw a local plastic surgeon yesterday. He examined the skin cancer and informed me that it would leave a large, unsightly, lumpy scar. Let me just repeat that: a plastic surgeon said it would leave a large, unsightly, lumpy scar. Thanks for nuthin’ Mr F.R.A.C.S.”
And that’s exactly what I got. Damn you Mr F.R.A.C.S. Pouty face. Yes, yes, I’m so grateful that I don’t have skin cancer, blah, blah, blah …
But a girl’s allowed to be slightly vain isn’t she?
One of ours is called “Splat”. He is the one of stitches and scars, and of broken bones. He earned that name when he first started to walk/run everywhere (run, run, splat!) and has since lived up to it with a frequent flyer card from the local hospital ED.